Under the harsh glare of four massive searchlights set up by the mercenary team, two box trucks rolled into the abandoned Gotham parking lot. Slipknot and Tattooed Man stepped out and approached with stern expressions. Like Deadshot, Cheshire Cat, and Captain Javelin, they were mercenaries hired by the "ventriloquist " — though they all believed he was just another eccentric Gotham criminal, not knowing they were actually working for Bruce Wayne.
Slipknot, a burly Mexican skilled with lassos, had designed the trap that currently had Killer Croc tied like a dumpling. Seeing Croc writhing on the ground, a smirk crept across his face. Tattooed Man — covered head to toe in ink like a defaced sailor — sneered with mockery.
"Haha! This is our target? What a joke!"
A thick puff of white smoke escaped Croc's nostrils in response, the hiss of boiling sewage venting from his scaled hide.
The mercenaries moved in unison, dragging the massive reptilian brute toward the open cargo doors of the trucks. During the chaos, Tattooed Man tossed out another crude comment — and narrowly avoided having his arm bitten off by a snapping Croc.
Humiliation.
Fury.
Pure, unrelenting rage.
Killer Croc's blood boiled. He was beyond angry—he was incandescent. His wrath surged like an exploding supernova, tearing through any remaining layer of human reason. No past insult, no physical injury, no cosmic injustice could match the degradation of this moment.
He let out a thunderous roar.
"BASTARDS!"
The sound rumbled like a god being tortured — like Prometheus chained or Christ crucified.
And then—
Bang!
The ventriloquist casually opened the back of one van and, without a word, unleashed a mountain of cash. A literal ton of U.S. dollars slammed into Killer Croc's face.
The green mountain of bills collapsed around him like a clumsy landslide of toilet paper, cascading to the ground.
Croc froze.
"These are your advance wages," said the puppet. "All of it is yours — if you say yes."
"…Un… unforgivable…" Croc growled, though the volume had dropped significantly.
Bang!
Another van door swung open. Another avalanche of money crashed down, pelting Croc's face like freezing rain.
He wanted to rage. He wanted to snarl and demand dignity.
He wanted to rage. He wanted to tear these monkeys limb from limb and demand his dignity as an apex predator. He was a monster, a historic terror of the under-city—not some greedy, petty animal.
Right?
…Right?
A hundred-dollar bill flopped down across his eyes, blinding him.
"Unforgivable… forgive… forgive… forgiven…"
Dizzy from the overwhelming rain of wealth, Killer Croc staggered, his primitive neural pathways completely short-circuiting under the sheer weight of the capital. He instinctively hugged a massive stack of wrapped bills to his chest like a childhood teddy bear, his reptilian eyes wide and glazed as he croaked:
"...Dad!"
Deadshot blinked, his cybernetic eye whirring as it zoomed in on the beast. "The hell?"
Croc paused, a sudden spark of absolute clarity hitting his sluggish brain. Wait. I'm a Black American. I don't even have a dad.
"Cough..."
He cleared his throat, straightened up, and announced with deep sincerity:
"I have wandered alone in the dark for years. I deeply regret not meeting a wise, visionary leader sooner. If you'll have me… I'll serve you loyally."
Javelin dove into the pile of cash, laughing like a man possessed. "Oh my God, this has to be at least tens of millions! I could die happy right now!"
"Get off!" Croc snapped. "This is my money!"
She may be yours legally, big guy," Javelin cackled, scooping up loose handfuls of the green beauty, "but I'm the one holding her close and fucking her!"
With his hands still tightly bound to his ribs, Killer Croc used pure, terrifying abdominal strength to launch his 1,500-pound frame sideways, rolling directly over the money pile like a deranged treasure hoarder, his jaws snapping protectively at the air.
"Mine! MINE!"
Deadshot could only stare in silent, icy disbelief.
Unlike Javelin, Lawton had operated at the highest echelons of international espionage. He had seen serious cartel money before. Which made this moment infinitely worse—because his trained eye knew this wasn't just tens of millions.
This was at least $200 million in cold, hard cash.
He hadn't known the vans were loaded with actual, honest-to-God stacks of cash. Looking across the lot, he could tell Slipknot and Tattooed Man hadn't known either. For a single, dark second, a lethal calculation crept into Deadshot's mind—kill the Ventriloquist, waste the others, and run with the hoard.
But reason prevailed.
Whoever could casually throw $200 million down into the mud just to bribe a sewer mutant could easily put another $200 million bounty on Floyd Lawton's head by sunrise. And he had a daughter to think about. He wasn't suicidal.
Even if he took the money, where could he go? Two tons of paper currency wasn't exactly portable.
He turned his head, his cybernetic eye instantly locking onto the tense, shifting pupils of Slipknot and Tattooed Man. They were having the exact same dark thoughts
.
Instinctively, Deadshot raised his wrist-gauntlets, the barrels tracking them.
"Whoa. Easy, fellas."
Inside, he was preparing for one of them to snap and ruin the payday. He kept his weapons raised but nodded tightly toward the Ventriloquist.
"Alright, enough games. Ventriloquist — where's the real boss?"
Tattooed Man and Slipknot looked genuinely confused. Javelin stopped rolling in money and stood by Deadshot's side.
Only Killer Croc remained lying in the cash, giggling like a cat high on catnip.
Deadshot didn't want a fight — not here, not now. But something was off. The whole setup smelled like manipulation.
Someone knew he wouldn't act out of line. Someone calculated that he'd serve as a stabilizing force. And if that failed — they'd probably be fine sacrificing him to eliminate risk.
A violent chill crept down Deadshot's spine.
Even his hesitation had been entirely predicted.
If Croc took the money and fled, an immediate multi-million-dollar contract would turn the entire mercenary underworld against him.
But by accepting the job, the reptile would fight like a demon to protect his new source of income. Most likely, he and Deadshot would team up, wiping out any threat to the investment.
It was brilliant. Too brilliant.
The mastermind behind the curtain wasn't just throwing money — they were pulling puppet strings and setting psychological traps with surgical precision.
Then Cheshire Cat subtly stepped to Deadshot's flank, forming a triangle formation against Tattooed Man and Slipknot.
Of course. She had been bought off and briefed long before tonight.
Deadshot sighed, biting down his fury.
"Damn," he muttered. "Why didn't they bribe me?"
Thats the result of haggling.
The tension eased slightly. Deadshot lowered his gun and stared at the ventriloquist, who silently pulled out a set of five earpieces from behind his back.
Deadshot's teeth clenched.
Even that had been prepared.
-The contract was signed.
-The vanguard was assembled.
-The game was officially on.